by Abby Angel
"You'll be fine, kiddo," Mike is saying, standing next to me. He had called in some contacts and managed to somehow talk to the manager and get me an audition in the last half hour.
"But she's not going to get naked," Mike had told the manager.
"What good is a stripper that doesn't strip?" the manager asked, dumbfounded.
"She just needs an audition," Mike said. "If the Prince comes in, then we'll go on stage, but have the DJ cut the music at the two-minute mark. Let the Prince come to her."
The manager smiled knowingly. "Oh, it's one of those things, is it, Mikey?" he asked with a wink and a nod.
And that's when the Prince walked in. More like stalked in.
I still don't know how Mike managed to wrangle this deal as I think back to the last half hour in this club. I figure that when you work in gossip, you know all kinds of characters.
"Two minutes, kiddo," Mike says to me, the manager having told us to get ready. "Two minutes is all you have to get his attention."
I nod. I'm a little nervous. I'm wearing whatever I could find really quick - with a short black skirt, stockings, high heels, and a black tank top.
I'm not sure how I got into this situation.
Actually, wait a second. I take that back. I know exactly how I fell into this situation. I jumped at the chance to get back at Derrick Blaine. I remember back to one afternoon when I was thirteen. I remember it vividly because it was two weeks after the King’s wife had died in New York City. I don’t remember much about the circumstances, but I do know that Derrick was away from school for those two weeks.
When he came back, no one knew what to make of him. But after History, I was walking near a pond when all of a sudden I remember that he was walking next to me. He was staring ahead and I didn’t know what to do. No boy had ever wanted to talk to me. I turned around and looked at him. And he turned around towards me.
His eyes held some sort of longing, it seemed. They seemed to want to say something to me.
At least that’s what I thought at first. But sadly, I was mistaken.
Because that’s when he pushed me. Into the lake.
I remember the kids laughing at me as they gathered around. I felt my cheeks flush with embarrassment. But when I looked up, the evil Prince was gone.
"Alright gentlemen!" the DJ announces to the crowd as the last dancer finishes up. "Put your hands together for an audition from none other than the super sexy...Misty!"
Misty. That's me. That's what Mike decided was my stage name. I hate it! A part of me wants to turn around and run! The other part wants to throw up.
Not that Mike would blame me. It would be perfectly understandable. But I’d be saying goodbye to the fast track that my career was now on then.
And the story would probably go to someone else. And I'd be stuck doing research for Page Eight instead of writing Page Eight like I did today. But if I do this, it advances my career and I get back at the one man who tormented me.
Besides, if Prince Derrick Blaine was a good man, he’d have nothing to be embarrassed about, right?
Yes, I can do this.
Here goes nothing...
I take a deep breath and walk up the stairs onto the stage. The stage hugs the whole back wall of the club and a catwalk juts out from the center of the stage towards the middle of the floor. There's a pole.
Bingo! That where I'll go.
There's actually applause as I walk onto the stage. The thing is, with the lights on me, I don't actually see too many men. I don't actually see anybody as I wrap my hands around the pole.
God! I've never done anything like this before! I'm a good girl! I'm the responsible one! I mean, I'm still a virgin! What am I even doing here?!
Get a grip! I tell myself to calm down as I keep twirling around the pole.
But that's when something really funny happens. Dollar bills start dropping around me and people start cheering and hollering. I can look into the faces finally, and I see desire.
Desire for me! Lust for me! Guys rubbing their crotch looking at me as I bend over and slowly take off my tank top.
I start getting into it and turn my back to the audience, holding onto the pole and trying to remember the three pole dancing classes I took a while back with Jenna. I slowly slide down, sticking my ass out and wiggling it.
The dollar bills start coming down.
I wrap my leg around the pole and run my hands down the material of my bra and over my stomach until I rest them on my ass. I turn my head back and give my ass a smack.
People are loving this and I feel so sexy.
This is exactly what I needed to feel desired and sexy again! And I'm completely sober. Endorphins are rushing through me as I start unzipping my skirt.
I wonder what Mike is thinking. But all of a sudden, I don't really care. There are men out there in the world that want me.
I turn around and face the audience again and nestle the pole against my ass, slowly peeling off my skirt.
I see the mirror up on the ceiling. Mike told me it's a one-way mirror. That's where the Prince went to after he stalked in.
All of a sudden, Derrick’ body is all I'm thinking about. I'm not dancing for the dollar bills, or the various men who revel in the lust that my body arouses.
I'm dancing for the bad boy prince.
As his bad girl.
I peel my skirt off, and I run my hands over the black thong that covers my pussy.
I barely register that the crowd is eating this up. I've probably received more money while keeping my clothes on than the last several girls did taking them off.
I sink down to my knees and begin caressing my body, reveling in the sensation.
I tell myself that the Prince is up there, watching me. And it makes me get wet.
I slip a finger underneath my thong and look up the mirror.
And then...the music stops.
My two minutes are over.
And there is no Prince.
Derrick
Fucking Christ!
Why can't I get the fucking girl on stage out of my head? It's like I'm fucking hypnotized by her swaying. She's got a fucking amazingly tight body and I'm staring at her as she takes off her tank top.
Fuck, where the fuck have I seen her before? She seems so fucking familiar.
She's turning around and my mind goes crazy looking at her ass. My private room's on the second floor, but I made sure it has a fucking good view of the stage. And right now I'm happy for every penny that it fucking cost because I'm looking at the stripper on stage as she's dancing and shaking her ass and my cock is twitching like it's gone fucking mental.
Marta is moaning beneath me but I'm not even aware of her existence.
All I can fucking think of is the girl on stage.
What did the DJ announce her as when she came on? Right as I started to fuck Marta?
I'm thrusting in and out, and grunting, trying to think of what her stage name was. It finally comes to me, "Misty," I groan loudly.
"Marta," the Russian blonde looks up at me and pouts. "My name is Marta."
But I'm not listening. I'm not even in the room if you’re talking mentally.
I'm watching her peel off her skirt slowly as she faces the audience. And I feel my cock begin to spasm as her skirt falls to the floor and she turns around, giving the room a view of her ass.
That fucking delicious fucking ass.
I lose it. I can't take anymore and I groan lewdly, feeling electric currents shoot up from my balls and the familiar seizure grip my body.
Only I can't stop looking at the woman. I'm cumming for her. Fucking hard.
My cock is shooting rope after rope of cum into the condom. I feel my eyes roll up in my head. I shudder as the last squirts of my cum fill up the condom.
Shivering slightly, I pull out of Marta who turns over to sit on the sofa. She watches me with wide eyes as I unsheathe the condom from my cock.
"Jesus, Prince," she says with wide eyes. "Y
ou really do cum in quarts, don't you?"
Hell fucking yeah I do. But that's not what I say. I'm too busy looking at Misty who seems to have stopped dancing. The music's stopped and the audience is booing.
"That's all for tonight with Misty, gentlemen!" he announces. "Give her a round of applause if you want her to come back!"
The crowd goes wild and so do I. I quickly pull my jeans back on.
"Hey!" Marta yells at me and I look over. She's still splayed out on my sofa, naked, with her cunt exposed to the wider world. I shake my head to myself. If the fucking slut's not even going to respect herself, how the fuck is it that I'm the fucking bad guy when I kick her to the curb? Besides, I always tell the girls I'm with, from the very beginning, that if we ever fuck, they shouldn't expect that all of a sudden I'm going to change and stay around for them. That's not the way I fucking roll.
“When will I see you again?” She keeps asking. “I’m free any time after my shift.”
Right, she’s free. She’d probably quit her fucking job, leave her family, and do any fucking thing I want to be with me again. Free? Absolutely.
But I'm not fucking thinking of that. Right now, I can't dwell on this. I have to go down and see who this Misty character is, because fuck me if she isn't driving me fucking mental. I need to go find her. There's something about that girl - like I fucking know her from somewhere.
"Hello?" Marta asks, getting upset. "Aren't you going to give me anything at all?"
What the fuck does she want? She knew going into this that this was just a fuck. What does she want me to give her?
"Here," I say absent-mindedly, handing her my condom that I'm holding. I was originally going to go to the manager's office and flush it down the toilet. But there’s no fucking time – I can see Misty start to pack up.
Marta's mouth drops open as I hold out the condom, not even realizing what I'm doing. I think she's too shocked to even comprehend the situation because she just holds out her hand as I drop it in and immediately turn around without a second thought to leave. I don't even notice her gaze of absolute shock as I descend down the stairs.
And it's a good thing I rushed too, because Misty's putting her coat on and getting ready to leave. I bound down the floor. Thankfully, people are too focused on the girls to fucking notice me and in a few seconds I've reached her.
There's an older bloke standing next to her and he sees me first. Wait, does he poke her in the ribs once? I'm not sure but as soon as I notice that he sees me the man just takes a step back, almost as if into the fucking shadows.
Hey, I've fucking heard about beta males, but this is almost something else. It's almost enough to get me to lose focus on my mission at hand.
Almost.
The girl, Misty, is looking up at me now.
"Thank God, I caught you," I exhale out.
"Why?" the woman's voice is harsh, like she's stopping herself from slapping me. "Did you want to take me up there to your sex room?"
What the fuck?! I look at her with confusion. The anger in her voice makes me flinch.
"What the fuck are you talking about?" I ask her.
"That's what you do, don't you?" she asks. "You fuck girls. And then throw them away?"
What was with this bitch?
"Isn't that why you ran down to catch me?" she asks. Fuck, she's got a fucking edge to her. Normally, I'd just call her a bitch and walk the fuck away. I'm not wasting my time on some fucking feminazi bitch. No pussy is worth that much.
But this one somehow is, because I stand there, just taking the abuse.
She's looking at me, her eyes raised. "Well?" she asks.
I notice out of the corner of my eye that the man she was with is looking worried. Like he wants to intervene. I'm not sure what his deal is. Maybe her manager. Can't be her fucking pimp. Somehow, she doesn't fit the mold.
"Sorry, love," I say, wondering what else I can say at this moment. Fucking Prince Sin - yeah, don't look at me like that, I kind of am taking a shine to the fucking name - all of a sudden without anything to fucking say.
"It's just that when I saw you on stage, you reminded me of someone I used to know. A long time ago," I say quietly. Her eyes widen and I don't know why I say it, but I fucking do, "A happier time."
That fucking takes her back. She wasn't fucking expecting that. "Who?" She asks me. "Another slut you slept with?"
"Where the fuck is this hostility coming from? Jesus fucking Christ, love," I exclaim. "It's like you hated me before I even got here."
"I know who you are," she says with a sneer.
Oh. Fuck. Me.
She must have seen me on the fucking telly. Waving my Godzilla cock around like I'm fucking drunk. Which, considering the vast quantities of booze, I can safely say I was.
I'm about to try and explain my way out of my actions when she asks, "Who was it?" She looks at me, and for a moment I think it might be her. That it might really be Alicia. But fuck me, that was so fucking long ago. After my mom died when I was thirteen, I remember coming back to school and wanting to talk to Alicia. She was the prettiest girl in the school. Smart and funny, as well. But above all, she was kind. I remember after Mom died on the first day back I felt an urge to talk to her. Fuck, I even got as far as getting up the courage to walk up to her. But fuck me, she was so fucking pretty when she turned my way, I had nothing. I froze. Couldn’t speak for the life of me. So what did I do? I fucking pushed her into the pond that we were walking next to. And after a moment, I ran away. Dad was pissed, of course. He said I needed more structure. Fuck that. I needed a father who didn't cheat on my mother and beat her. Didn't force her into an early fucking grave because she gave up on fighting the cancer. I can count the number of fucking times I've thought that if my father had only been nicer to Mom, treated her like a real fucking human being, maybe she would have been able to survive the fucking cancer as it ate her away.
Anyways, where was I? I'm sorry, I just got distracted, you know?
Right. For a moment there, I had the vibe that this bird in front of me was Alicia. God, she was gorgeous. And she didn't even know it. I'd managed to keep track of her until she graduated from Yale. Now I didn't know where she was.
"Someone I used to know, love," I say, answering her question. "Her name was Alicia. Alicia Bayer."
If I didn't know better, I'd think that her eyes are beginning to tear up. But she stops herself and she looks at me with a cold, hard, face.
"Well, sorry," she says. "My name is Misty."
Give me a fucking break. I know strippers have stage names. I own a strip club so I can fuck strippers, remember?
But the music is changing and the dancers are changing shifts so I'm not going to call her on it. Instead, I look at her.
"Listen, love, have dinner with me on Friday. What do you say?" I ask. Fuck, that's three days away and I want to fuck her now. But something tells me that with this girl, I need to play it right. Play it fucking old-school.
She's studying me. Like a fucking hawk.
"What's your phone number?" she finally asks. "I'll call you."
I program my number into her phone and she gives me a brief smile before walking away, without even a goodbye. I see the man she's with slink away behind her. Fucking loser. But whatever, I don't care. I'm too busy looking at that beautiful ass. I can feel my cock twitch.
But fuck me, mate. It'd be a lot easier if she were Alicia.
Then I wouldn't have to wait till this Friday to know that I was in love.
Alicia
"Just take it easy tonight, kiddo," Mike is telling me over the phone. It's Friday evening and he's in the office fixing up the evening edition of the paper that just went out before focusing on tomorrow's morning edition. "You have about three hours if you want to get anything juicy into the pages."
I sigh. Ever since my last foray into Page Eight, I've been getting a lot more respect at work. The fact that Mike is holding off on the deadline for printing the paper till after my dat
e with Derrick goes to show how much importance he's placing on tonight and my continued association with Prince Sin.
Prince Sin. I still can't believe it. I mean, it took me a few times to look at the video of him waving his cock around but I came to the conclusion that every woman in America probably came to after seeing it - Prince Derrick Blaine was very, very large. He had a magnificent and beautiful cock. And even I, who hadn't had much experience in these matters could see that.
Oh, just to explain something to you really quick. There's no real one author that writes Page Eight. Well, I mean, in the newspaper the author is listed as Abigail Adams. But she doesn't exist. It's a team of writers that puts together the stories. That's why when Abigail says something, it's usually one of the writers or their assistants that came up with it.
Up until this week, the closest I had gotten to attributing words to Abigail Adams was doing research and looking over and proofreading articles. Until the Prince and his fateful "interview". I got 750 words that day - almost unheard of for a newbie to get. And Danielle and Mike are telling me to prepare for another 1000 words after this date.
And it is a date. But it’s a date where I have to pump him for information. I sigh into the phone, "I got it Mike, you've been over this with me like a million times already," I say.
"Don't give me that kiddo," Mike says and I roll my eyes on the other side. "I've been around the block, okay? I've covered these bad boy princes. Hell, I've even covered the ones that weren't that bad, but wanted the world to think they were. And let me tell you, this Derrick character, he's the worst of the lot."
I'm in a taxi and it's pulling up to Columbus Circle right now, so I tell Mike I'm getting ready to get out.
"Be careful, kiddo," are his last words before we hang up.
It's a nice summer evening and I'm glad I decided to wear a slightly tight, shimmering black dress. I have some heels to go along with it, and I had my hair done for the night.
What? Don't look at me like that, okay? It's my job to make sure Derrick keeps thinking of me as this stupid, little, stripper-girl. Is it the right thing to do? I don't really think so. But it's my career that's on the line. And for what? To publish the truth about a horrible human being whose been mean to me in the past, remember? It's not like I'm making anything up here. And this is for the man that either tormented me as a child or ignored me as I grew older. So I don't see the harm in what I'm doing, okay?